


Forbidden encounters among the stars

by giurochedadomani



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash, Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), but post 'you go too fast for me', discussions of stars and myths and Above and Below, forbidden romance vibes, vague mentions that could be interpreted as past Raphael!Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 19:20:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20935409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giurochedadomani/pseuds/giurochedadomani
Summary: Crowley bites his lower lip in order not to let a little smile shine through, then grabs Aziraphale's shoulders gently before he can think of a reason not to do it. They are alone in St. James’ and when he positions the angel in front of him, the angel’s back to his chest —not flush, mind you, but, eh, near enough—, no one pays them any attention.In the park, or elsewhere, above or below.





	Forbidden encounters among the stars

**[A STOLEN MOMENT IN ST. JAMES’ PARK (LONDON) — NIGHT — 1969] **

“It's a warrior”. 

Aziraphale squints his eyes, tries to follow Crowley's, cranks his neck a little. 

“From this position, I see a fish”.

Crowley gasps: “A  _ fish _ ? What in the universe are you looking at. It’s— It’s a hunter, if anything. A powerful giant, perhaps.  _ Most clearly a warrior _ ”. 

“It's right  _ there _ , my dear. A fish with big eyes”. A beat too long, a way too smug: “Perhaps also a funny tail”. 

_ The bastard’s doing it on purpose.  _

Crowley bites his lower lip in order not to let a little smile shine through, then grabs Aziraphale's shoulders gently before he can think of a reason not to do it. They are alone in St. James’ and when he positions the angel in front of him, the angel’s back to his chest —not  _ flush _ , mind you, but, eh, near enough—, no one pays them any attention.

In the park, or elsewhere, above or below. 

“ _ There _ . It’s meant to be a sword, you see? That the great warrior is holding”, he indicates, casual tone betrayed by how hesitantly he accommodates against the angel, a hand on his shoulder and the other pointing a finger at the offending group of stars. 

“Do apologize me, but it’s a little bit rich, calling  _ that _ a sword”. 

“A little bit rich, you say? Are you actually  _ blind _ , angel?” 

“It’s a scythe, if anything. Perhaps a crossbow”. He giggles. “ _ Most clearly not a sword _ ”. 

Crowley feels warm, which is perhaps caused by the ever increasing irritation Aziraphale is aiming for, but most likely provocated by how the angel leans back (just a tiny, little, almost imperceptible bit). When the angel looks at him over his shoulder with an easy smile, the demon really wants to kiss him. 

He does not. 

_ You go— (what the fuck— ) — too fast for me (—does that even mean).  _

“You know what? You may be right. Hungarians used to think that what he had in his hands was a crossbow indeed. And the Chukchi —oh, did you ever run into the Chukchi?, that he'd shot with it against— there”, he adds, pointing to another point in the sky. 

Aziraphale follows his hand. He scrunches up his nose. 

“And you’d enlighten me as to what is that?” 

“A mighty serpent, of course”. Millenia of faking his way through Hell’s actual paperwork give you a lot of practise when it comes to bullshiting your way through a tale: “You see, this hunter, he was a bit on the arrogant side. Capable of bragging against some higher authority of his hunting skills”. 

“Pretty sure that it was a scorpion”. Crowley decidedly ignores how his stomach flips when he hears Aziraphale laugh: “My dear boy, Virgil was a good friend of mine. I do know the Roman myths”.

( _ There’s a lot of things that Aziraphale discovered in Rome, starting by oysters and wine and closely followed by theater plays, but his favourite had been, and Crowley does not have a single doubt about it, imperial libraries _ ). 

“Is it that the true version, then? The one with the hunter?”

(_Crowley had hidden away in Gaius’ one —still Gaius, but on his firm way to become Caligula—, a small snake among an insurmountable amount of paper rolls, as he planned to surprise the angel only to be surprised himself by the sudden appearance of Aziraphale’s superior. Such a_ _familiar, very unwelcome face_. 

_ Gabriel had told him about the rebellion, and the war, and about the role that played in them an angel with fiery red hair who asked way too many questions for his high status and thought that hanging out with the wrong people wouldn’t bring consequences and about how he should not let him out of his sight, I mean it, Azirafail  _ ) _ .  _

“Who knows? The Chinese saw a deer being hunted by dogs”. 

“Ah, yes. Over there, right?” 

( _ Crowley had raged once, of course, he had flee the scene and made his way into a nearby tavern. He had just wanted to be left alone —he had thought, wine in a pitcher in front of him, focusing on being angry because he didn’t want to be sad—, to be allowed to make some trouble, temp some humans here and there, always staying clear of Heaven and Hell’s impossible war. To be acknowledged as Crowley and not with some old name he hadn’t use in millenia and which felt like an old, mismatched suit, belonging to another being altogether _ . 

_ And then Aziraphale had showed up, with his pristine toga and his stupid winged brooch and— he has not made a reference to it. Not a single question about how and why did one Archangel had ended up as doing a clerk’s job in Hell. He’s yet to do it. Crowley counts it among the many reasons why he likes the angel so damn much _ ) _ .  _

“So now you’re pretending that you didn’t see a fish”. It’s more an acknowledgement than a question. He smirks. “ _ Poor fish _ , angel. It’s going to feel  _ ignored.  _ Have you got no shame at all?” 

“Oh, no, goodness,  _ no _ . The fish is still somewhere, ehm, over there, I suppose”, Aziraphale says, with a flourish of his hand. Crowley snorts. “You’re the expert, not me”. 

“I’m by no means an expert”, he circles him until he’s next to him. “In fact, I’d trust you to know far more than I do. Half the myths are based on nice, good religious figures, all approved by Above. Take South America, by example. Half of the continent calls them The Three Marys. Or the Three Magic Kings”. 

(The Malay call it the ‘Three Brother Star’, which probably makes out of them one of the groups of people who has come closest to guess the meaning behind it. Crowley still feels the judging look of Michael, Gabriel and Uriel everytime he hears the name). 

“My lot has not created stars in a while”. 

Aziraphale frowns. The demon pretends not to see how he looks  _ concerned _ of all things. He offers a casual, nonchalant: “Nor mine”. 

Crowley could have told him ages ago, stars are, afterall, one of the issues Aziraphale usually latches onto because _well, it made me think of you, and I thought that you’d like it. _Like that time in tenth century when he nagged him for days on end until he had agreed to go to Tehran to do a couple of miracles on his stead (without making a single reference to that new, massive celestial observatory that had just been built in the region). Or when he had introduced him to that new friend of his, _an actual_ _knight, can you believe it? He tells the most amusing story about an apple falling onto his head, you must meet Isaac, Crowley— _ And yet. That also would have meant trying to explain why Heaven is as full of shit as Hell and how he feels way more comfortable with his pitch black wings than he ever felt with the white ones. He doesn’t think that Aziraphale is prepared to that conversation. He wonders if one day he’ll be. 

( _ Perhaps one day we could— _ )  (Crowley feels very dumb, and a little bit pathethic but overall really hopeless). 

“Well, what would you want them to be?” 

Myths. Legends. Stories. Crazy explanations humans come up with when they look up the sky full with curiosity and dare to ask. Whatever happens, he’ll always feel pretty proud of that. 

“That’s easy. Attack ships on fire. C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate” _ .  _ There’s a glimmer of recognition on Aziraphale’s eyes that Crowley feels a mighty need to distract, so he starts walking again and he adds: “I’d quote Tolkien to you if I remembered which Maiar was actually responsible of the stars”. 

“ _ A Maiar? _ ” The absolute affront. “It was  _ not _ a Maiar, Crowley. It was one of the  _ Valar _ —”

As they are walking through the park, sharing easy banter and memories from centuries past, Crowley thinks that he’s pretty proud of this, too, whatever it is. And if at some point their fingers brush for a moment, well, only the stars with their myths and legends and crazy stories are witness to it. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm! Soft! For! These! Two! 
> 
> I wouldn't have guessed that Crowley infodumping about stars would be the hill I'd die on, but here I am. Apologies to Neil Gaiman and also Ridley Scott and probably Virgil too and in general every single author of every single myth about Orion I've written into this text. 
> 
> I'm @thebasisofoptimism in Tumblr. Come say hi!


End file.
